


Unmanned

by dearjenna



Series: Unmanned [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Game of Thrones References, House Lannister, Inspired by A Song of Ice and Fire, M/M, Multi, Self Insert Weekend, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-23 04:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14324253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearjenna/pseuds/dearjenna
Summary: Lord Tyrion Lannister begrudgingly accepts his position as Acting Hand of the King for the tyrannical King Joffrey Baratheon. In doing so, he finds an unlikely companion in a female scribe for King's Landing.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bossladyharley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bossladyharley/gifts).



> This. Is. My. Terrible. Self-Insert. Feel free to treat it as not that. Kudos go to @bossladyharley for being a very good best friend and beta-ing this for me. There is a 100% chance that this story will become NSFW at some point, so that is just a heads up to anyone under 18 that may become invested.

Besides its brilliant shores, mountains and plains, Westeros was home to the coveted Iron Throne of King’s Landing. Young lords and ladies dreamt of their families’ right to the palace and its people. However, beyond the imaginative, there were a few who religiously believed they were born of the right to rule, though it had truly occurred through complete happenstance.

That right was currently held imprisoned by House Lannister. King’s Landing paraded the crest of a golden lion on crimson flags. The Lannister clan laid its claim across Westeros and bore the noble honor of being lords and ladies to Casterly Rock. It was the daughter—Cersei Lannister—who married King Robert Baratheon, leading to the Lannisters taking up temporary home in King’s Landing to work aside the king, obeying him in hand and children. Following the king’s passing, the Lannisters kept to their duties, with the first son, Joffrey Baratheon, taking the throne next. The child displayed unspeakably aggressive behavior, yet he continued to rule over the people of the Westeros capital and its Seven Kingdoms—often much to the chagrin of even his council and elders.

The citizens of King’s Landing, no matter how far from their king, weren’t immune to his influence. Although the further away one was in proximity, the better, even in the palace. It was why so many translators, academics, maesters and historians stood the test of time in spite of everyone else in the capital. Working with one’s head down in darkened corners—only somewhat illuminated by candle light—kept one remarkably unnoticed.

Seldom did a Lannister bother to come into the dusty libraries of an academic to poke and prod, lest they intended something impish. It was more likely the King and his family would rather send someone of the likes of Lord Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish or Lord Varys, the eunuch, to worry with that bidding. When those days did arrive, most among the dusty books and scrolls considered their conversation with the lords an intellectual sport of cunning and an unexpected reprieve from literature and scribing. 

Scribes were an important part of documenting legacy; these historians were recruited in an effort to restore old artifacts, translate ancient texts of myth and truth, and record up-to-date facts about each House and how they lived for later posterity. One such historian of the King’s Landing palace was a woman by the name of Jennifer, though she considered her own place in history to be of little regard. She, like many, preferred to be out of sight.

Despite her gender affording her certain discriminations, she had secured herself a place with the others for her skills in reading, writing and translating. The job was hers for the taking during the rule of the late King Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. It was an easier time than most to slide in relatively unseen to the employment of the Red Keep. The ruler spent most of his time drinking, hunting, visiting the brothels, and feigning interest in his kingly duties and council. Anyone working alongside Jennifer could have easily predicted that a number of those things would culminate in his death, but they wouldn’t dare speak it. It was harder to stay unnoticed if one allowed their words to feed the sheep like trough fodder.

The quiet afternoon of the palace’s library made for the perfect setting to reread old texts for inspiration before scribing new translations of work. Jennifer’s current assignment required translating the sparse text that existed for Myr during the Dawn Age—hardly an easy task. However challenging, she felt significantly less pressure knowing translations were not due until the end of that week. The request had been made special by Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, Ruler of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, Lady of Casterly Rock. The fierce blonde was the least of Jennifer’s favorite on the throne, but she had only endured one conversation with the queen regent shortly after then-Lord Joffrey’s tenth Nameday. Much like the family, the ceremony was a bombastic one in which all of the Red Keep participated. Jennifer and her academic colleagues chose to huddle together in drink and conviviality to avoid faux pas.

Yet, as thrilling as the story was that she read, the sound of voices interrupted Jennifer’s concentration.

“You misunderstand me, sir, I don’t mean to disclaim everything you have to say, just the idiotic points you’re making,” said one disembodied voice from the other side of the stacks.

Jennifer craned her neck up from her book—she was leaned in a relaxed position in a chair, trying to read through the legends of House Targaryen. Her teal cloak clung to her as she sat forward, moving silently to listen closer. The fabric hung down to her feet. With its long sleeves and hood, the clothing concealed her from strange eyes in the capital. In the dim lighting of the library, her hood was down and her long red hair fell in wavy curls down her shoulders and over her chest.

“You’re foolish if you think King Baratheon is the Lord of Storm’s End,” the other retorted, his voice hollow with age. “He is very clearly the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.”

“They’re nearly the same thing! The titles both belonged to Robert Baratheon,” the other said, his thin voice now sounding strained. There was the sound of some rustling, fighting. “So help me if you write that down, I’ll turn you in for treason!”

“You wouldn’t dare, you cowering goon!”

The voices grew louder, and Jennifer knew the only way to calm the old men was to intervene.

The historian placed her book down on the table with a gruff  _thud_ , hoping to garner their attention. Between stacks—shelves of books and scrolls—anyone could stay concealed in the over-sized room. Jennifer had made her own cubby of contentment between three adjacent stacks that, until that moment, had also kept distractions at bay. She rounded the shelf dividing the group to see both men standing on the other side, one holding a quill, the other holding their colleague’s shoulders in a display of barbaric manhandling.

“You’re making it quite difficult to continue my reading,” Jennifer said, walking towards both men and snatching the quill out of one’s grasp. “Bartholomew… Cain…” She gave them a knowing look.

Both men looked as if they had lived a thousand years—their hair missing in spurts atop their heads in brittle, white strands, and their wrinkled jowls gave them permanent frowns. The bland, beige cloaks they wore did nothing for their pallor, not that her cloak was distinctively more lavish.

“My apologies,” Bartholomew said, tending to the slight soreness in his palm where the quill used to be. “Please tell Cain that I am a perfect scribe for House Lannister, and he is to trust me. The proper additional title to our Grace is ‘the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands’.”

“How do you know this to be true?” Jennifer inquired, holding the quill behind her back to stop either man from getting any bright ideas. Their passion often played an aggressive role in their behavior when it came to record keeping.

“It belonged rightfully to our late King Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the—”

“So did Storm’s End!” Cain interjected angrily.

“I do believe that both were bestowed to his brother Lord Renly Baratheon, were they not?” Jennifer countered. “If it were not for such a neglect of his kin, Stannis Baratheon—Lord of Dragonstone, Master of Ships, self-proclaimed King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm—we would not see such turmoil for the Iron Throne as we do currently.”

Both men glared at each other. Cain threw his hands up. “Our Grace, King Joffrey Baratheon, is Robert Baratheon’s child—his first born son.”

Jennifer gave both men a knowing smirk that said nothing in particular that could linger beyond the stacks that hid them from view. There was hardly an argument to be had other than the way in which they must bury secrets until it could properly be recorded, at a later date, for its truest recount. “Our beloved, passed King Robert Baratheon gave the rights to his youngest brother. That is where the title lies. We shan’t scribe rumor and debate into these pages, unless we footnote that such additional titles are a part of the complexities of the Baratheon reign.” There was a slight bite in her words, but she grew tired of calming their constant bickering.

Bartholomew conceded, “‘Tis fair. Were it not for Robert’s Rebellion, it wouldn’t be Baratheon at all.”

Jennifer nodded and handed the man his quill. “Write it properly, please. No more fussing. I was getting some good reading done before this all started, and now I may have to start back at the beginning.”

A slow clap of appeasement and snark erupted from around the corner as Lord Petyr Baelish appeared with his usual smirk. “Greetings, Lord Baelish,” Jennifer said. _Lord of Baelish Castle, Lord Protector of the Vale, Master of Coin, Keeper of Whores, Teller of Lies,_  she inwardly thought. “To what do we owe this honor?” She bowed her head only an inch in respect, lacking of will to prove more.

“A welcoming I appreciate between the bindings of books,” Lord Baelish replied, looking Jennifer up and down in a way that always made her skin crawl before returning a slight bow to Bartholomew and Cain. “Our Grace requests an addendum to some text, and I offered to take on the duty of delivering the news myself.”

“Is Lord Varys with you this good afternoon?” Cain inquired.

“Not hardly,” Petyr stated curtly. “Our Spider is off gathering secrets, I’m sure. He does love a good game like that.”

“As do you,” Jennifer quipped before rounding the corner back to the other side of the stack to resume her reading.

“Our fair historian is in the brightest of spirits on this fine day, I see,” Petyr replied pointedly, more at Cain and Bartholomew. His eyes followed her as she disappeared behind the shelves and resumed her place with the Targaryen text, beginning again at a reference to the Doom of Valyria—a story that Jennifer had a hard time believing lived in truth, not bathed in dreams.

The three men dispersed, no longer murmuring about the King’s request. Littlefinger did not waste any time slinking his way over to Jennifer who sat upright in her chair, fingers splayed and pressed against the over-sized book as she did her best to focus enviously on the words and not the man’s approach. Lord Baelish perched on the corner of her table, one leg no longer touching the ground as it swayed in arrogance and amusement.

“You do make reading look fun,” Lord Baelish said; it felt like a hiss that followed Jennifer all the way down her spine.

She looked up slowly from her book and pinned his brow with a piercing look. “To what do I owe this meeting?” she asked with a half-smirk.

“You seem off today, my dear,” he chirped. “Are you not usually more inclined to speak with the Master of Coin on a slow afternoon?”

Jennifer folded down a small corner of the page in front of her—soft enough to not permanently damage its edges—and closed the book. She let the cover fall on its own. The book echoed through the stacks as it slammed closed. “It has been a long day, my Lord,” she replied, trying to sound more accommodating in nature. “Cain and Bartholomew have been wrought with petulance, and I am simply trying to read up on the Targaryen legacy before I continue my work.”

Lord Petyr Baelish always listened intently when someone spoke. It was both a blessing of conversation and a heed of caution to the wiser. He examined Jennifer’s face, his smirk still playing on his lips. “I most certainly do not mean to disturb a beautiful scribe of lore and legend, but it does seem that the two elderly wafers of men who you work alongside have elected you for King Joffrey’s task,” he replied. Jennifer knew that meant they were still arguing somewhere, more quietly, in a corner.

Choosing to ignore Lord Baelish’s  _compliments_ , for fear she might find herself lounging in one of Littlefinger’s brothels, she stood up and placed her book back in its proper place. Wordlessly, she gestured for him to follow her to a tome sitting atop a marble podium. Small etchings of quill ink marked the pages. The scholastic read was not much for prose, but it did take care to provide a timeline of Westeros’ many lines of rulers with the briefest of biographical entry—all other literate illustration was left to the scrolls and pages of books devoted to entire Houses, rulers and significant events of time.

She flipped to a page with  _King Joffrey Baratheon_  written in calligraphic attitude next to a small illustration of the House Lannister crest and a rough drawing of the young king. Neither had been done by the hand of a scribe, but commissioned by an artisan in town, much as the others often were. The entry for King Joffrey began after a eulogized passage of King Robert’s passing. The young royal highness had merely a short paragraph for his legacy, as he was both still living and a child. Jennifer dipped the end of a red-feathered quill into a pool of ink and looked to the Master of Coin. “What is it that I’m scribing?”

“King Joffrey Baratheon—King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm—welcomes Lord Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock as Acting Hand of the King to serve and obey,” Lord Baelish recited.

Jennifer tried her best not to let a smile appear and allow her amusement to betray her, but she was finding it hard.

“Something funny, my scholar?” Lord Baelish inquired, tilting his head to get a better view of her expression hiding behind her hair.

Jennifer finished scribing, dabbed the excess ink off of her tool and put the quill back in its proper holder. She let the page dry and turned to the man. “Nothing humorous,” she lied. “I merely find it interesting the choices Lord Tywin makes for his House when it’s no secret he hates his youngest born.”

Petyr released what sounded like a short scoff or chuckle and loosened his posture. “Now, now,” he tsked. “The Lannisters are fine men and women. Do you not think they are making the best decisions for the throne?”

Jennifer smiled. “Of course, Lord Baelish. We are all honored to serve and scribe for House Lannister, and King Joffrey Baratheon, as they sit and rule from the people’s Iron Throne.” She reached for the quill. “Shall I add anything else, or are there no further developments?”

“At this moment, news is barren,” Petyr replied, almost sounding disappointed. “But I am sure Lord Varys, myself, or any other hand in the palace will return as soon as we have something to share. As you were…” The man bowed his head lowly and Jennifer returned the same. As he exited, she made sure that the tome’s page was dry and closed it shut.

With Lord Baelish gone, the air in the room felt loose in Jennifer’s lungs—the strain to breathe and avoid turbulent conversation followed him like a shadow. The sun poked through cracks of translucent, stained glass that sat high on the tall walls of the library. Its rays were a glow of pink and orange. The academics droning across the floors of the room usually kept to their work until it was too dark to read, but during this time of day, the tint of the windows made it difficult to tell what was evening and what were tricks of crafted light. Jennifer looked up to the way the sun danced against the high-vaulted ceiling and dissipated further down the walls, flecks of dust glittered in the light. It must have been a few hours past noon. The sun hadn’t yet lost its vigor.

Desperate to step out into the fresh air, and escape Bartholomew and Cain who were growing clamorous once more, Jennifer lifted her hood, and walked up the narrow, stone staircase that led from the library to the ground floor. She exited through an entryway that sat off to the side, less tall in arch to the gargantuan openness of most doorways of the Red Keep.

The historian walked out and was greeted by an autumnal-esque breeze that crept under her dress and hood and steeled her veins. Her arms twitched in reaction, and she pushed forward across the stone path to the railing that enclosed the gardens of the capital. The gardens were popular for their escapism and vivid color, decorated in elegant trellises, arbors, archways and floral vegetation. Jennifer didn’t get to see it as much as she often wished. Her work usually kept her holed away like a hermit.

The wind pulled Jennifer’s hood off of her head, and her neatly pulled-back hair was carried off of her shoulders to flow behind her in a tangle of annoyance. She did her best to maintain her locks with one hand while allowing her eyes to follow the garden paths across the expanse of the Lannister’s hold, seeing just above the shrubbery and decor. She could hear the chatter of neighbors and castle hands alike enjoying the bright day, and a small pocket of commotion closer to the front of the castle.

Jennifer couldn’t ignore the draw of noise, so different from that of the two elderly men she’d left behind to wither away in their faded cloaks. These voices were a mixture of young and old, chanting and gossiping. As she walked towards the front of the Red Keep, the commotion grew louder, and the sound of carriage wheels could be heard struggling through the stone paths of King’s Landing.

Lords Varys and Petyr stood to the side with many of the King’s knights, presumably to welcome their guest. Jennifer assumed that guest was the youngest of Tywin’s children, having just heard the news of Lord Tyrion Lannister taking his place as Hand of the King. She’d never met Lord Tyrion, but most of what she had heard, or was forced to record, included biographical exaggerations in which he was the “foul imp” of the Lannisters who spent most of his mature life “whoring,” “drinking,” and caused the death of his mother, Joanna Lannister. For edification, however, Bartholomew had chosen to transcribe the records as: “Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, [now Acting Hand of the King] born 266 AC to Tywin and Joanna of House Lannister. Through medical complications, Lady Joanna Lannister passed away whilst giving birth. Lord Tyrion Lannister lives with no current spouse or child to his name.”

The path Jennifer took to meet the crowd led directly to the backs of Varys and Petyr. She took a small breath and slid in between a row of men sneering at the carriage—now halted for its passenger who was disembarking—and stood beside Lord Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger was enraptured in his conversation with the Spider, so much so he didn’t notice Jennifer had come to stand next to him. Varys was the first to note her presence and smirked in her direction, nodding a welcome.

“Lord Varys, Lord Baelish,” Jennifer greeted shortly, nodding to both men. She gestured toward the carriage. “Lord Tyrion Lannister, I presume?”

“You presume correctly, Miss,” Varys replied with a smirk. “Today is the day that our Lord of Casterly Rock comes home to  _Father_ to act as Hand to our Grace, King Joffrey. A momentous occasion, indeed.”  

“You seem rather amused,” Jennifer replied with a knowing look that Lord Baelish took great amusement in.

“I am always enthusiastic about the changing of winds here at King’s Landing,” Varys stated boldly. “Today is the day we have the final Lord of House Lannister staying at King’s Landing with his kin and Baratheons alike. I am sure it will prove a fruitful venture for us all.”

Lord Baelish gave an impish smirk and chuckled, looking down at the ground coyly. He looked up to meet Jennifer’s eyes. She held the gaze for a moment and turned to see the dwarf exit the carriage alongside another man—a companion whose name she didn’t know, but he was of average height, with broad shoulders and carrying a sword. Closest to the doors and front of the line, Petyr, Varys and Jennifer stood together and watched Lord Tyrion approach. The man was familiar with both Petyr Baelish and Varys, but took pause when he saw Jennifer. She bowed her head politely to the fair-haired dwarf and smiled. “Pleasure to have you here at King’s Landing, my Lord,” she said.

Lord Tyrion smirked at his companion and back to the woman. “Pleasure is all mine,” he said, bowing his head as well. “Shall I be seeing you around the palace?”

Lord Baelish grinned between them. “Miss Jennifer is one of our scribes in the library, a remarkable historian with fine hand,” he said.

“Indeed,” added Lord Varys. “You might find her amongst the tomes during the day, should you find their words of most interest and help in your new position.”

The Hand of the King smiled brightly to his company. “I do quite love reading.”

Lord Tyrion Lannister walked through the towering castle doors, and Jennifer watched him until he was completely out of sight.

“Careful,” Lord Varys warned. “He’s a small man of many large words.”


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Joffrey Baratheon commands the Red Keep to witness the trial of a beggar thief from Flea Bottom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aye, it's another one. Not much here. I didn't mention before, because it just hadn't occurred to me - I do take some liberties with the timeline of GoT. I mean, it's a Fanfic, so maybe you're like "yeah, duh idiot." But for my nicer readers, I wanted to point it out. Especially if you have a great memory, or you're currently watching/re-watching GoT in its first/second season where there is some overlap in references and scenes. But I'll likely dodge around some or omit certain characters. So there's your notice.

The news of the new Acting Hand of the King, Lord Tyrion Lannister, broke through the capital like a loud clap of thunder and lightning. Whispering dared to become murmuring, which grew into chattering, which assaulted like a herd of goats bleating in unharmonious chorus. The imp, the half-man, the folly of House Lannister, aiding alongside the young King Joffrey and Queen Regent Cersei. Lord Tywin seized the opportunity to push forth the change of Hands in the same week of his grandson’s Nameday — an assured slight at the King and Queen Regent who decapitated their way deeper into war. 

> _It is prudent to note, House Stark of the North held their name and position in Winterfell long before the betrothed House Lannister and House Baratheon visited on its noble mission_ , Jennifer wrote.

Her penmanship was light and easy, branding the coarse paper of the tome with scripted strokes of prose.

> _ Lord Eddard Stark _ — _ Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North _ — _ was offered a chance to become Hand of the King to King Robert Baratheon _ — _ the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Whilst concerned with leaving his post and people, Lord Eddard turned down the opportunity until persuaded by King Robert. The lord of the North migrated to the capital, King’s Landing, and took up post next to the Iron Throne.  _
> 
> _ Impassionately charged with treason shortly after, Robert Baratheon’s heir, King Joffrey Baratheon _ — _ King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm _ — _ commanded _ ...

It was as far in the scribing as Jennifer could go before she had to request Cain continue the rest. She felt the words kneading at the back of her mind, desperate to be written. More threatening than those prickling words, however, were the memories she couldn’t shake: the screams coming from the young Starks’ aching throats and Sansa Stark’s horrified face as, in spite of an admission of guilt—true or not—Lord Eddard Stark lost his head. 

Those most loyal to the Baratheon king cheered on their pubescent ruler in a fit of chanting and awestruck applause that day. Their moans of admiration felt grossly overwhelming. There did exist, however, clusters of men, women and children, afraid to watch the scene—the scribes, most of all. At the sight of the cruelty, their heartbeats trapped in their throats, suffocating their gasps and jeers. 

Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell pled with her beloved as the Hand of the King’s head rolled to the stone ground. Her croaking scream and panic ripped through Jennifer’s chest and bashed against her ears. But what followed was harsher than the noise: a sonic-boom of deafening silence and finality crushing the capital. Across the sea of civilians—glued to the scene, afraid to find the eyes of Stark children in the crowd—King’s Landing witnessed the audacity and tenacity of their King who displayed no favoritism, and for once a populace of people were speechless. 

Soon after, the quick and petulant wrath of the Protector of the Realm shot through Westeros. The War of the Five Kings was upon the Seven Kingdoms in spite of King Joffrey’s impudence, but the beheading of Lord Eddard secured the North’s opposition to the Iron Throne. 

Whenever Jennifer set forth to record the event, she felt her stomach quake. Even now, suns and moons away from that damned day, her bones cried out in empathy. It was not easy to transcribe the words and commands of a king whose actions could turn a legacy to ash for no other reason than idle hands. She shuddered at the idea that he might also one day grow cunning enough to try to rewrite his own history. 

The Iron Throne was already one built by fire, incest, greed and insanity. Jennifer heard Bartholomew say once, in a hushed voice, the throne possessed those who worked to claim it. That might have been why, before shipping off to the war, Lord Tywin sought to advise his grandson’s misdeeds. Yet even with political savvy on the elder’s side, there was doubt growing in Jennifer’s belly that any Lannister could be trusted to keep the capitol—much less the Seven Kingdoms—at peace. 

Rumors spread through the Red Keep that the small council did not welcome Lord Tyrion’s entrance as acting Hand of the King, most especially Queen Regent Cersei. No one could ever confirm exactly how they knew; Jennifer suspected it was the work of Lord Varys, Master of Whisperers. The eunuch enjoyed watching knowledge spread like disease through a town, inviting and educating, arming peasants and disarming nobles. She had no reason to believe he wished to dethrone the Lannisters, but she knew either Lord Varys or his “little birds” were always somewhere at the end of a story. 

Lord Tyrion was charming for the brief seconds Jennifer spoke with him. Perhaps that was the Lannisters’ ace in life: blinding onlookers with fair skin, fair hair, poise and charisma. For obvious reasons Tyrion stood out from the other Lannisters; however, his blonde hair curled in frenetic locks atop of his head, catching and floating in the wind, as the only feature that connected him to his kin. Who was this man who wouldn't be trusted by his own family, tyrants themselves? 

Jennifer pulled herself away from Cain as he took to finishing the prophetic scribing of Lord Eddard’s treason. She couldn’t watch the weathered man reduce himself to those words, much less subject herself to the memory. The early morning was overcasted by clouds and rain, leaving the library cloaked in shadows. In the distance, Jennifer could hear the light  _ tap _ of footsteps coming down the stone stairs. 

“You were not joking about the hubris of the scribes’ work here, Lord Baelish,” a voice said. 

“It is the crowning achievement of man, to posterize our legacies and bend over their words in reverence,” Lord Baelish replied in lyrical amusement. 

Jennifer turned her head to the visitors, her hands grasping a cup of tea as if it were her only lifeline in the gloomy morning. Through foggy eyes, a combination of grogginess and recovery from earlier apprehensions, she looked to Lord Baelish with a small grin. 

“Back again I see, Lord Baelish,” she said before taking a sip of her tea. The cup and the steam blinded her sight and she hadn’t quite noticed the source of the other voice. 

“I’ve brought with me Lord Tyrion to get a view of the tomes,” he replied with a playful smirk. 

Jennifer let the cup fall from her face for a better view and straightened her posture. “Apologies, Lord Tyrion,” she said with a slight bow of her head. “Long, early morning.” 

“No apologies necessary,” Tyrion replied. “I am merely here to seek out your works and familiarize myself with the stacks.” 

“You should find everything in tidy order here,” she said with a gracious smile. “But I am not the sole scribe for these historical texts.” Jennifer gestured with one hand behind her as a few, cloaked men sat like stone in chairs, stood by podiums, or shuffled their feet across the hard flooring from one shelf to the next. 

Lord Petyr leaned in Jennifer’s direction as he gave a coy smirk. “Perhaps not, but I would not trust another soul to escort our Hand of the King through these relics.” 

“You do often try to flatter me,” she replied. 

“And one day I hope to have earned that honor.” Lord Petyr bowed in respect to his company and effortlessly drifted back up the staircase. 

Jennifer did her best to mask an eye roll. She held her tea close to her chest. “I can sip tea and host, if you would like a view of what we have.” 

“I don’t wish to take up your time,” Lord Tyrion said with a sincere smile. 

The man’s politeness was something of a different flavor for the Red Keep. She kept from hesitating in her reply: “I can delegate to others if it’s a matter of the small council.” She led him through a maze of shelving and cluttered scrolls to the heavy-bound books and loose parchment in the back. 

“Not business, pleasure,” Lord Tyrion corrected, eyes wandering over the shelving as they passed. 

“No matter,” Jennifer replied. “You’re Hand of the King now. That means something here.” She tried to sound accommodating and not mocking, though she wasn’t sure she was convincing.  

“May I ask you a question, my dear?” Tyrion said with a gentle, polite tone. 

She took another sip of her tea and stopped in front of, what she considered, a stack of recreational works: tales of dragons, mythical beings in the North, legends of Essos, other magic and religion. Jennifer placed her cup on the nearest table and looked to the Hand of the King with an eye of suspicion—the few regular visitors the historians did receive never innocently asked anything. “Who am I to turn down a lord of House Lannister?” she replied with a small smile. 

Lord Tyrion smirked at the woman and nodded, “It would be quite bold and inconsiderate of you.” He sensed a bout of cynicism with the woman, but he regarded it as more of a seasonal cold—easily fixed with ale and sleep, nothing intrusive or meaningful. “I wonder, are scribes as privy to the whispers of the rest of the Red Keep?” 

Jennifer felt a glaring warning following his inquiry. No matter how sincere he appeared, Lord Tyrion was still a Lannister, and now even more so a vital aid to King Joffrey. She wouldn’t dare betray her colleagues with honesty. Their texts had to remain impervious to bias, or the concern of bias by others. “Rumors are difficult to avoid here,” she replied with a cool tone. “We don’t keep to the words of gossiping men and women between these stacks. Objectivity is required.” 

“Ah,” Tyrion replied, clicking his tongue. “An analytical mind is admirable to find.” 

“In a woman, you mean?” Jennifer tilted her head, suspecting he was just as guilty of underestimating the opposite sex. 

Tyrion raised an eyebrow in surprise. “In my experience, a person.” 

The scribe dropped her guard long enough to chuckle and gave him a smile. “And you?” 

“And I, what?” 

“Could you hear the crows from Casterly Rock?” 

He laughed. “I am never too far from the news,” he replied. “Certainly not with Lord Varys to provide.” Tyrion ran his hand over the bindings of the books in front of him. He stopped on a leather cover with an embossed title about dragons. “Mind if I take a look?” 

Jennifer gestured wide towards the bookcase and bowed her head. “Please take your time. I will be in the farthest corner if you need me.” 

On the other side of the library, Cain shook himself loose from his cloak to reveal a ratty, white robe underneath. He sighed heavily, placed his quill in its holder and blew on the page to set the ink. Jennifer approached the scribe from behind, smiling. 

“I appreciate you finishing that passage, Cain,” she said, lightly gripping his shoulder. 

“Better it is finished now than it is a burden later,” her colleague mused in a hollow voice. “I will be leaning on you to take on the Baratheon texts.” 

Jennifer knew what that meant: Cain was going to make her write on Stannis Baratheon and his conversion to the Lord of Light. She knew it would be agonizing, but the punishment fit the crime for someone who pushed her assignment off on an old man with weak hands. “I can barely wait,” she replied sarcastically. The chuckle that followed from Cain turned into a cough quickly. He shuffled towards the staircase to escape the film of dust in the room. Jennifer hoped the humidity of the above floors would help lubricate his lungs. 

Lord Tyrion was still standing by the bookshelf where the female scribe left him. He palmed the spine of a book on dragons—his free hand following each line as he read through the legend of Balerion the Black Dread. His pace was quick and steady. Balerion was one of his favorite tales from his childhood. Seeing any text on the creature elated Tyrion. 

Shadows darkened the room as the rain grew heavier. It was an odd morning for King’s Landing, which spent more moments in sunshine than not. Scribes shifted from one end of the library to the other, the candlelight leaving slow trails of their form behind. Growing tired from standing, Lord Tyrion looked up from his place in the book to find somewhere to rest his bones. As directed, the scribe, Jennifer, sat at a small table on the farthest end of the library. She was nearly hidden between two stacks and reading from multiple scrolls, holding them in a cumbersome fashion, shoulders hunched in the poor posture of concentration. Lord Tyrion took short strides to her and cleared his throat as he approached. Jennifer looked up, bleary-eyed, and let go of the scroll. It coiled back into place on the table, and she took a moment to yawn. 

“Need help with something in particular, Lord Tyrion?” she asked. 

Tyrion grinned. “Hardly,” he replied. “Though I wonder if my page flipping will be of the utmost distraction to you?” 

Jennifer paused, slower to pick up on his cues than she normally would. She opened her eyes wider and shook her head. “Please!” Her palm was opened towards a free chair. “Unless you read barbarically aloud and slowly, I highly doubt you’ll be a worse distraction than the weather.” 

“You’re too patient,” he replied and sat in the available seating. 

Tyrion immediately took to the book in his hand once more, his feet propped against a support of the table, leaning him back in his chair in a relaxed position. The book lay open flat in his lap as he read. Jennifer took the opportunity to examine the Lannister, still cautious, but finding him less of a threat if all he wanted to do was read a book on dragons for the morning. Tyrion noticed the woman eyeing him and grinned to himself as he read, choosing not to draw attention to it. 

“Why Balerion?” Jennifer interrupted. 

Tyrion held a hand at his place in the text and met the woman’s eyes. “Don’t you love a good tale of dragons?” 

“I’ve translated too many to say any longer.” 

“Pity.” Tyrion clicked his tongue and looked over the woman’s face, trying to figure her out. “You know his skull is supposed to reside in the dungeons of the palace.” 

Jennifer chuckled. “Do you spend a lot of time in dungeons?” 

“Dark corners have always been a specialty of mine,” Tyrion replied with glittering eyes. 

The sounds of steps—too heavy to be Cain returning—echoed off of the staircase leading into the library. The same man seen with Lord Tyrion, upon his arrival into King’s Landing, approached the table with an embittered smirk. 

“Ah! Bronn,” Tyrion said with excited recognition. “Is it already time? Jennifer, do you know of Bronn, Commander of the City Watch?” 

“I have not had the pleasure,” Jennifer replied, standing and bowing her head. Bronn returned the gesture. “What is it time for?” She looked between both men with confusion. 

Tyrion stood to his feet, letting the book fall closed on the table. “Duty, my dear,” he replied. “Nothing but duty. King Joffrey is holding a small trial—informal as it may be—in the Great Hall for a thief caught stealing from food vendors.” 

A splinter of recognition pierced her morning fog. She would have to attend that trial, per her own duties as a Red Keep worker. “Well, if duty calls, do be off,” Jennifer said, shooing them away with her hands. “After the trial, the books shall not move from here any time soon.” 

“Perhaps we can speak again of Balerion,” Lord Tyrion replied, taking Jennifer’s hand and kissing the back of it softly. “Good morrow.” 

The Hand of the King and Commander of the City Watch left in unison, their arhythmic footsteps stomping back up the stone staircase. Jennifer rubbed the back of her hand with her thumb, worried a curse might have set with his kiss. 

Trials in the Red Keep often drew in moderately-sized crowds in King’s Landing. Upon King Joffrey taking the throne, court proceedings were frequent and malevolently partial. It was the  _ honor _ of the capitol to attend those proceedings, or so they were told. He enjoyed the audience participation and stroke of his own ego. Over time, he had gained his own following, with men, women and children fawning over his every move and word—desperately loyal, fatefully obedient. 

Just as it was hidden from the narrow windows of the library, the morning sun couldn’t be found across the Crownlands that morning at ground-level, either. It stayed at bay even as noon crept in. Civilians shook off the bitter weather as they filed into the Great Hall and took to the accommodated seating. Their pupils were wide as they searched for their king in the dimmed, cavernous room. 

Cain met Bartholomew, Jennifer, and the other scribes, in the Great Hall—they kept their backs to a nearby wall and watched silently as the rest of the capitol eagerly attended. From across the room, in a similar pose, Lords Baelish and Varys were whispering and grinning wide-eyed to each other. Jennifer searched the room for any other faces of familiarity. At the front, standing by the Iron Throne was Lord Tyrion and his companion Bronn awaiting the rest of the small council. She noted the armor plating across his chest that wasn’t there earlier in the library—newly polished and bound tightly to his chest and torso by leather strappings. Jennifer watched as Tyrion’s eyes followed the room, chuckling at something Bronn said; she assumed it was an intended take at humor, but the Commander of the City Watch delivered it with a sneer of irreverence at the crowd. 

“She had the biggest tits I had ever seen,” Bronn said in a low voice to his friend, bending somewhat downward so he could say it confidence. “Nearly took my head off.” 

Tyrion looked down to his shoes, shifted where he stood, and looked up to his friend grinning. He was fighting back the want to laugh as he attempted poise in front of the crowd. “Sounds like Littlefinger has been treating you well,” he replied. 

“A man needs a good lay.” 

“Quite true,” Tyrion said with bright eyes. “Figures our kingdom’s Master of Coin can do so well in that department.” 

“Business is business,” Bronn replied. 

Lord Jaime Lannister, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, entered the platform next to the Iron Throne on the opposite side of Tyrion. He was followed shortly by other men of the Kingsguard, Queen Regent Cersei, and finally King Joffrey. The king fell into his throne as if it were a cushioned chair in his quarters after a long day of actual work. Tyrion smirked at his nephew and looked out into the crowd. The Hand of the King spotted a familiar, redheaded scribe and smiled to her in recognition.

Jennifer hadn’t realized for how long she was inspecting Lord Tyrion, trying to assess his conversation from afar, until she realized he was smiling to her now—no longer grinning resolutely at his friend. Jennifer gave a closed-lipped smile in return and bowed her head to the Hand. Bronn followed Tyrion’s eyes to the woman and grinned devilishly. 

“She the woman from earlier?” he asked. His voice was thick with tease, a molasses coating every inch of his throat. 

“Her name is Jennifer,” Tyrion replied, breaking his short gaze as Jennifer’s attention moved to Bartholomew. “She’s a scribe here.” 

“Ah,” Bronn said, his brow raised in recognition. “So, she’s off limits.” 

“Most likely to a man of your moderate caliber,” Tyrion replied with a chuckle.  

Bronn scoffed and stood up straight for the proceedings, not before muttering “git” under his breath. 

Lord Tyrion looked to his nephew with amusement as the king’s eyes were glued to them both. He was leaning over one arm of the throne, hand resting on his fist. 

“If you’re both done, I’d like to do my job now,” King Joffrey scolded in a hushed voice. 

“Far be it for me to interfere with your grandiose rule,” Lord Tyrion replied, one hand gesturing to the crowd, urging the king to carry on. 

King Joffrey always looked as though he had smelled something foul when he was on the throne. Jennifer assumed it had to do with his age and lavish upbringing.

“Bring him out!” King Joffrey commanded loudly. He smiled brightly in a way that turned the scribes’ stomachs in the back. 

The audience erupted into light applause and a few excited cheers as men of the Kingsguard drug in a frail old man. If what Lord Tyrion had stated in the library was true, the man hardly seemed to be much of a threat. In fact, he seemed so emaciated it was a wonder he could get up the energy to steal at all. Jennifer’s face darkened in worry as she watched the man’s knees scrape against the floor. The knights let go of the man and what weight he had collided with the ground. The impoverished prisoner sat upright on his knees, stared up at the King, and tried not to make a noise. 

Lord Tyrion grimaced at the sight of the man, unfavorable at best and most of all least deserving of the King’s wrath. 

Lord Jaime spoke first: “King Joffrey has charged you with theft. How do you plea?” 

“P-please, y-your majesty,” the weakened man whimpered. “I am not a thief—”

“Oh, but you are!” King Joffrey interjected. “We found you stealing from a vendor, were you not?” 

“Yes but—”

“So he’s also a liar!” King Joffrey replied, throwing a hand in the air and grinning. Snickering could be heard in the crowd. 

“If I m-may,” the man yelled out over the crowd. “We are very hungry, very poor. I-if my job paid wages well enough to feed my family, I would not have b-been so desperate. It is hard for us in Flea Bottom.” 

“It is true,” Bronn piped up. “Been there, not pretty.” 

King Joffrey smirked. “That is a shame.” His tone seemed less than forgiving. 

“King Joffrey,” Lord Tyrion spoke up, hands behind his back in a posture of confidence. “Would it not be worth the time of the throne to consider making an example of such a pitiable creature by allowing him to serve for his theft and then return to his family unscathed? If it is this hard for the provider of his home, imagine leaving a wife and children without any way of providing, either?” 

Queen Regent Cersei eyed her brother from across the platform. Lord Tyrion couldn’t decide if it was relief or annoyance—she had a tricky way about her. Jennifer’s full attention was on Tyrion at hearing his words. They weren’t the most poetic or sympathetic, but they were sound. 

The King sat upright in his throne and tapped his fingers on the metallic arm. Each  _ tap _ sent a shockwave through the skull of the criminal on his knees. 

“My uncle’s words have spoken to me,” King Joffrey said. “It is a shame a father cannot provide for his family…” He clicked his tongue and frowned. “Have I not provided enough for you here in King’s Landing as your ruler?” 

Tyrion’s eyes turned to shock, already prepared for the worst. 

The man on his knees cried out: “It is not of your d-doing that we are in the slums, my King!” He was down on the ground now in a fetal, praying position. “We lived there long before you were even born! I swear no disrespect in marking on my family’s state of decay, I merely hope for others to u-understand that desperation overwhelms me.” 

Jennifer held her breath and closed her eyes. Bartholomew lifted his wrinkled hand to his colleague’s shoulder and patted it lightly. 

“Flea Bottom is nothing more than rotting buildings built on top of filth,” King Joffrey replied. “It is a breeding ground for violence, crime and poverty. Wouldn’t it have been best for you to move out of that place if it could lead you here?” 

Lord Tyrion sighed and looked down to his feet; Jaime mirrored his brother. The rest of the Kingsguard stood firm behind the Queen Regent as they appeared unshaken. Bronn was actually unmoved. He picked at his forefinger and thumb as if he had dirt under his nail. 

The criminal still stood low, his cries muffled by the stone floor beneath him. 

“Offer his family my condolences,” King Joffrey commanded apathetically. A terrific cry tore through the Great Hall followed by light cheering from the crowd. The two knights awaiting command scooped the man up by his shoulders and drug him out of the hall to be  _ dealt with _ . Civilians dispersed as the King stood from his throne and dismissed them all. Men and women working in the Red Keep held mixed reactions to the trial. 

Lord Tyrion approached King Joffrey, hands at his sides now, and raised his brow. “You’d do well to consider how some compassion can extend a ruler’s reign further than wrath, my King,” he said. His advisement came both as Hand of the King and a wearied uncle ashamed of his nephew’s rule. 

King Joffrey recoiled at the man’s words. “I did not ask for your opinion!” he spat, trying to walk away. 

“No, but as your Hand of the King, it is my duty to advise.” 

Lord Tyrion let the boy walk away, worried eyes also falling on Lady Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, as she followed her king and beloved out of the hall—handmaid in tow. 

“You’re doing a fine job of making the king listen,” Bronn said in a flat tease. 

“Wonderful idea I had, keeping you around,” Tyrion replied.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hours after the trial have left Jennifer somewhat shaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks. It's another chapter. *tada.wav* I'm more leading into more with the coming chapters, but I hope you find this interesting enough for now! Kudos, again, go to @bossladyharley, as she was so kind in giving this one a once-over, as she has for every chapter. A very good best friend, indeed.

A wet mop slapped against the stone path leading from the Red Keep, the dirty water and mop head tinged in shades of pink and red. Withered hands of an old maid gripped the tip of the handle and scrubbed while she hummed a hauntingly lachrymose tune. The gray undertones of her skin revealed anemic veins wrapping around her knuckles and wrists—skeletal as the Stranger might be.

Trial attendees were a mixture of morbidly fascinated and expectantly dodgy at the tarnished ground as they exited the Red Keep. The other scribes took care to steer Jennifer’s curiosity away from the area as they headed further out towards the market. Bartholomew suggested the outing to counteract the stress of the hour’s trial. Jennifer always dreaded returning to the palace after such events; it was easy to feel safe until those brutal moments of the week when the King gleefully sent men and women off to their deaths.

If Jennifer did live to earn enough coin to leave King’s Landing, she might. Hell, perhaps leave Westeros altogether. It was all too easy to fall prey to His Grace’s petulance and wrath so long as she was merely a horse’s ride away. Jennifer knew she would rather live chained at Slaver’s Bay than liberally vulnerable to a city whose mortality rate was rationed every week like penance from some unspoken sin.

Cain and Bartholomew stopped at the scrivener supply vendor’s storefront with eager eyes and hands. Cain gingerly grazed his fingers against the feathery soft frills of new quills yet inked, while Bartholomew quizzed the vendor on his paper supply. It was a game he enjoyed playing—one in which he pretended to know more about the business than the man running it.  Jennifer watched the amused vendor as he took mental inventory of every rapidfire question Bartholomew threw at him (“Is the parchment sheep or goat?” “Did you know sheep is more pliable for us scribes of Red Keep?” “I bet you get your paper from birch trees, don’t you?” “How valuable would you consider that paper?”).

The vendor’s mouth twitched into a smirk, and he answered in order with a glassy aristocracy in his voice that came from serving so many men and women from the palace (“Goat.” “Yes, of course, fine sir, but as you know our goat is unmatched to that of any sheepish scroll.” “Woven from hemp and linen—you know this, of course.” “My supply is not for bargaining, Bartholomew.”). Bartholomew ignored his unamusing pun or accuracy and pouted before purchasing a new set of scrolls. Cain waved goodbye to the quills, with a longing frown, as his colleague pulled him away from the store in a huff.

Jennifer shifted on her feet and looked around, trying to find an adequate distraction. She took slow strides, unconsciously following the flow of traffic deeper into town, but her stomach twisted—barking gruffly in the beginning stages of agonizing hunger—for having not eaten a sufficient meal yet in the day. She eyed the way the streets splayed in different directions, leading to different desires.

The Street of Sisters, a road less-travelled by Jennifer and which regularly hosted audacious, alcoholic horse races. The Street of Flour, home to bakers and cooks earning coin through large sums of dough. The Street of Silk, never explored by the scribe, known otherwise as the elite district of whore houses and the business of pleasure. The Streets of Steel and of Seeds were further away, and Jennifer had only trekked through them once to understand how to best navigate the area. The people were hardly friendly, and they were less so on the Street of Steel. The Hook and Kingsroad extended outwards, weaving through the King’s immediate territory and out towards a blurry horizon. One evening, when the Red Keep was still, Jennifer took the narrow, stone staircase towards a high point of the palace and looked down the Hook to where it met Kingsroad. It seemed so long, so far from where she was.

Jennifer’s stomach twisted again, and she headed towards the Street of Flour in hopes of something to ease her tension. The aroma of fresh bread, burnt wood and coal lifted Jennifer and brought her feet to stand in front of one of the oldest bakers in the city. The woman gave a weak smile and gestured the scribe over with two fingers. Jennifer followed to the shelf in front full of breads of different sizes. Most were nearly as large as the oven they baked in—fit for a family or small congregation perhaps—while some were just large enough for one or two people to enjoy.

“We have some goods this week you may desire, miss,” the woman said in a painfully hoarse voice. Jennifer wanted to ask if the decrepit woman had taken a fondness to drinking acid, but she thought better of it.

The scribe knew the baker in that distant way one might recognize a neighbor traveling down the opposite side of the road each day, but with whom one never speaks. The elderly woman’s skin folded neatly in wrinkles across her face and neck. She greeted others with feigned customer service that often shapeshifted into snake-like venom when a hefty transaction wasn’t made. The frail woman stood at nearly 5 foot, with a hunchback likely molded from pulling and pushing heavy platters of foods from an oven for decades.

After greeting Jennifer, the baker sat down with a gruff moan and allowed her patron to choose between different loaves in stock. In the distance, Jennifer could hear a young boy, earning a wage for his family in Flea Bottom, shouting advertisements to attract customers to the store selling freshly baked meat pies. Her stomach growled at the thought, but she felt trapped to oblige the storefront she was at now. She settled on purchasing the smallest loaf there, knowing she could still venture towards the meat pies for more sustenance if she had the funds.

Jennifer fished for her coin purse—a tiny piece of fabric held together by a metal buckle—and pointed out a loaf small enough to fit in two hands comfortably. The woman released what sounded like a scoff, and Jennifer let the hand holding her coin purse fall to her side. “A meat pie sounds delicious, actually,” she replied with a raised eyebrow.

The baker glowered at the scribe. “Thank you for your patronage, miss,” she replied. The baker searched for some wrapping suitable for the small loaf, scowling harder at her stack of materials as she did so. “Ungrateful shits, all of ‘em,” she muttered.

The scribe heard the elderly woman’s disgruntled spat, but chose to let it go. Her fingers played tag with the metal bits of currency in her purse, as she tried her best to find adequate change. A sense of panic hit her as she worried she didn’t have enough with her to pay off this woman, with one foot in the grave, as a final honor to her elders. That was when she realized the baker was looking impatiently at her.

Jennifer bit her lip and looked down to her purse, but her eyes came into focus at a familiar face by her feet. The Hand of the King was squatting, pretending to pick up coins off the ground; he looked up to the scribe and winked. She was less comforted by the wink as she was knowing the weight of her skirt prevented him from seeing more than he ought. 

Lord Tyrion stood up and reached his hand out to Jennifer with a tender smile and nod. “Seems you dropped this, Miss Jennifer,” he replied. “Wouldn’t want you to not be able to pay it forward to this deteriorating old shrew.”

Jennifer smirked and took the coins thankfully before handing off what she needed to the baker.

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion,” the baker replied bitterly, but with a huge smile splayed on her wrinkled, thin mouth. It was a mixed look Tyrion Lannister had grown to accept from most people who crossed his path.

The bread felt warm in Jennifer’s hands, wrapped tightly in burlap. She held it close to her bosom for a moment before turning to Lord Tyrion, who was already a few steps away. Two men from the City Watch stared hard at the scribe. She called out to the Hand, shuffling towards him, while uncomfortably under the other men’s joined gaze: “Lord Tyrion!”

He turned to her and smiled. “No need to repay me,” he replied, as if anticipating her concern. “That old baker gives everyone a hard time if they don’t buy her largest loaves. She’s called me more than one unsavory name in the past.”

“I doubt a Lord of House Lannister deserved the treatment,” she replied, her voice laced in sarcasm.  

“Oh,” Tyrion said, feigning embarrassment. “Like my wretched, royal family, I do have my naughtier moments.”

Jennifer chuckled. “You’re wrong, you know.”

“Oh really?”

She nodded. “I do owe you. You nearly helped me escape a very awkward and frustrating transaction.”

“Unless you’re striding down Silk, you’ll hardly know an awkward transaction,” he replied. “Besides, you think it smart to be indebted to the Hand of the King?”

“I already am by living here, aren’t I? Your family certain does enjoy the concept of taxation.”

“How about I have my dearest sister tax you double this next month, and we call it square?”

Jennifer scoffed. “Or I could offer food or drink another time you are out in the city.”

Lord Tyrion smirked. “While my family’s status does preclude most fares here, I could be persuaded to be wined and dined by a woman without much discomfort… Consider it a date.”

The Hand of the King bowed his head to Jennifer and resumed his path. Cain and Bartholomew eyed Lord Tyrion with suspicion, as they passed him and approached Jennifer. Lord Tyrion looked to them and saluted sarcastically. Jennifer stifled a laugh.

Cain and Bartholomew stood in front of her with smiles and sacks of goods. They bobbed on the balls of their feet. “We made out like bandits again,” Bartholomew said through a raspy chuckle. Cain jabbed him the side, joining in the fun.

Jennifer’s eyes lingered on Lord Tyrion as he walked with confidence and turned down the Street of Silk. She found herself less than surprised, but shook him from her mind as she smirked to her fellow scribes.

“What is it you two got into this time?” she asked.

Bartholomew smiled a less-than-toothy smile and opened the sack to reveal new cloaks and some freshly-wrapped foods. “Found a few shops who were closing up because no one in the family could take on the business after the owner died—”

“That’s horrib—”

“Big sale!” Cain interjected with excitement.

“Big sale,” Bartholomew agreed with an energetic nod of his head. “We snatched up what we could for just a few coins.”

Jennifer sighed, choosing not to worry too much about those mourning families. “You’ll have to show off the cloaks when we get back,” she teased them. “I want to see you in this shade of lavender, Cain!”

Cain gave an old man’s wink with a slight shade of rouge on his cheeks. “It would be our honor,” he replied.

Jennifer’s quarters were tight. At night it was dimly lit by a few candles, and not nearly as cozy as she’d like. As a child, she always imagined a large, bright room with sunlight beaming through a skylight at all times. She wanted flowers in every corner, books lining shelves and stuffed under her bed. It wasn’t the life of a palace scribe, but a child rarely knows what she’ll become in life.

Each day the door—with its many latches and heavy hinges—slammed shut against the aging wooden frame, polished and painted with a lacquer Jennifer always found garrish. The sun only peaked in the early morning, then sunk behind the other walls by noon. The one reprieve from the world, however, was the room’s complete isolation from noise pollution which so often suffocated her during the King’s parties, tantrums and noble decrees. It was all too easy to imagine life was simpler than it was in King’s Landing during those stolen moments in her room. One only needed to forget who their king was and how feeble life could be.

Jennifer placed her coin purse and bread down on the table on the opposite end of the room from her bed. Off to the side was her bathroom, door ajar, a weak candle’s embers still floating in the congealed wax of earlier in the day—her fault for having not stifled it out. She grabbed a thick book from a nearby shelf and brought it to the table to read while she ate. Jennifer lit the lantern resting next to her food and settled into her wooden, uncomfortable chair.

The book depicted the Warlocks, and their rise to a seat with the Thirteen, a prestigious role of council in Qarth. Essos felt like such a spiritual, magical and fantastical part of the world that Jennifer found it hard to believe it even existed. Compared to the ritualistic religion of King’s Landing—that rarely lent itself to displays of gaudy miracles or magic in the average day—Essos seemed like an island of fables.

The bread flaked and melted like butter in Jennifer’s mouth as she ate her loaf, piece-by-piece. It crumbled over her plate in crude sizes, making it difficult to avoid contaminating the pages. She pressed her finger to the crumbs, picking them up with her fingertips and licking them off in a way that likely didn’t suit the Red Keep’s court. The book rested two-thirds of the way open, at Jennifer’s last reading place:

> _ “The Undying Ones present themselves as deceivingly beautiful, but beneath their visage are beings of ancient age and withering frames.” _

There were rumors of long-forgotten magic and spirituality even in King’s Landing, but Jennifer could only believe it was an attempt to feel immortal or superior by the common man. Many a heated argument surrounded the science and reason of the fantastic among the scribes. They were evenly split in three ways between the indifferent belief in the possibility, the highly religious, and the magically-atheistic. Cain and Bartholomew usually took Jennifer’s side during the yelling, though Cain admits his upbringing included a loose affiliation with the Faith of the Seven.

The scribes often carried the burden of telling someone’s truth without tainting it with their own. This was also the reason why transcription was a coveted position of the Red Keep, afforded only to those who could prove their honor. Kings relied on scribes to do more for them in infamy than even they may be capable of doing. In King’s Landing, a scribe’s approval from the Grand Maester meant everything for their career. 

It was history Jennifer constantly etched into woven pages of tombs, scrolls and flaccid books. Indelible pen markings making pages stand erect. Like the Warlocks of Qarth. Humans cared so much about the way their bones fossilized; the way pages were painted with the marrow of their lives in euphemistic and lyrical vocabulary. Even though humans weren’t alone in illustrious beginnings, middles and endings, it was the eloquation and transcription of the past that could set one species apart from another. Humans loved to exploit that advantage. It gave Jennifer and her colleagues work, but it also gave them cynical perspective.

People built their thrones, their namesakes, their cloth crests from wars of other men. It was gore that built the framework of harmony, and blood the currency for freedom. It was excitement and devastation. War collapsed kingdoms, slaughtered villages, pilfered livelihood, raped innocents, restored Faith for the victorious, rebuilt palaces and determined crowns. Jennifer knew all of this, and witnessed it unfold on countless pages. 

> _ “The Undying Ones dwell within the House of the Undying. Its walls are tall, as the tower reaches towards the sky, encased in stone, holding the secrets of their bizarre magic.”  _

The Undying Ones seemed like a joyless group, overcompensating and up to only the usual wretches of man. After an attempt to read the next sentence, Jennifer shut the book and cleaned up her crumbly mess of what remained of the bread. The flame of the lantern huffed out.

A knock on Jennifer’s heavy door nearly startled her. She hesitated and brushed the crumbs from the skirt of her dress before adjusting her posture and opening the door a crack. The man who had been with Lord Tyrion during the court’s witching hour before stood on the other side. She opened the door wider and gave a polite smile.

“Hello,” she said. “May I help you?”

Bronn adjusted his posture to match hers to be taller and grinned. “The Hand of the King has invit’d you to dinner tomorrow evenin’, if ya’ might be interest’d.”

Jennifer’s eyebrows instinctively cocked. Bronn chuckled under his breath. “This feels awfully like I’m being summoned,” she joked dryly back.

“Prolly is.”

She shook her head, loosening her hair from off of her shoulder. “Tell our treasured Hand of the King I will be working all day and into the late afternoon, and should he still be interested in company for dinner, he may find me there.”

The man cleared his throat. “Lord Tyrion  _ was  _ hoping he could meet you in the gardens.”

A pause. Jennifer tried not to linger on that gesture. “So be it,” she replied with a small smile. “I will meet him in the gardens just before the sun is down.” 

Bronn nodded, pleased, and turned on his heel before strutting down the stone hall and disappearing around the corner. 


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion drinks Jennifer under the table at a local tavern in King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks forever and always to my best friend @soartfullydone for being my supporter and editor through this chapter. About 50% of it was sitting done for months, but I just finished up the last half of it the other night. I'm sorry it took so long. I got a little too bogged down by freelancing. I'm learning to pace myself better with that work, though.

“He’s little, you know,” Petyr said with a grin.

“He’s not little, Lord Baelish,” Jennifer replied lowly, not bothering to look up from where she was writing. She was standing at one of the podiums, tome splayed, with a fresh quill and parchment making necessary edits to text regarding their resident King. “He’s not a child,” she added.

Jennifer hadn’t bothered to speak on her upcoming plans with the Hand of the King. It didn’t seem prudent, and Lords Baelish and Varys were already far too interested in the gossip around the kingdom. She needn’t add to it.

What _had_ stirred up conversation around the youngest Lannister this time was knowledge he was now borrowing many tomes at a time to take back with him to his quarters—a rarity of trust not often seen with the Red Keep’s scribes.

“You should keep your guard up when it comes to our dearest Lannisters,” Lord Baelish warned.

Jennifer sighed and placed her quill down. The Spider was leaning against an adjacent stack examining his fingernails. Lord Baelish was standing behind Jennifer so close she could nearly feel his breath on the nape of her neck. She looked up towards the wall in front of her, but never turned her cheek to meet his gaze.

“While I am sure there are motives for being oh-so-very concerned for my well-being, I assure you I am a good enough judge of character on my own,” she replied.

He took a step back, but Jennifer knew he was still grinning. He nearly always was.

“She’s right,” Lord Varys spoke up, now looking to his companion with amusement. “She’s been far better than you have been.”

Jennifer was now grinning, and she resumed writing.

“What might that mean, my good friend?” Lord Baelish inquired, irritation silking his words.

“Oh please… If I had a copper penny for every time you’ve swarmed to a Stark’s side for political and vanity’s sake, I’d be running the council by now.”

“ _You_?”

“Yes, _me_.” Lord Varys stuck out his neck as he spoke. His bald head was smooth and almost featureless. The men stared at each other for a beat. Their faces never changing, their eyes dancing to catch the slightest movement from the other. “ _But as we know…_ ” he continued, relaxing, “you were never quite as loyal to one Eddard Stark.”

The scribe faced the two men. Her brow was raised, curious more about this conversation, but desperate to change the subject from Eddard’s death. “Opportunist as he may be, perhaps you might be careful than to speak on such things around historians. You might jade our views.”

Lord Baelish looked back to Jennifer and locked eyes with her sharply. He grinned. “Wise as ever,” he replied. “We know you certainly hate confronting the deaths of King’s Landing.”

“I hate most unnecessary death,” she corrected.

Lord Baelish’s eyebrow raised. “And what of necessary death?”

“Lord Tyrion is a dwarf,” the Spider interjected. Jennifer and Lord Baelish looked back to him surprised. “He is not little. As Miss Jennifer properly pointed out, he is not a child. And he could have _your_ head.”

The scribe turned back to her book, unnerved.

“Rightly,” Lord Baelish replied with a frown. He watched her back for a second and moved back to Lord Varys. “But don’t you find it odd that a man of such power and wealth would rather sit on his laurels and drink and read all day with nothing to prove to his dearest daddy Lord Tywin?”

Jennifer slammed shut her tome and replaced her quill in its proper holder on the podium. She turned to them both. Lord Varys had stopped picking at his nails, poise splintering. Lord Baelish hadn’t moved.

“If you two gossips are quite done,” she said. “I have somewhere to be.”

The lords watched Jennifer walk up the staircase and out of the stacks. They gave her a decent head-start before following. She heard whispers and turned her head coyly to look Lord Baelish up-and-down as a warning before disappearing out of the corridor. His grin deepened.

Lord Baelish's words had a way of sneaking under Jennifer's skin. His voice oozed like slime coating her bones. It wasn't just in the way he said things; it was how often he sounded right; it was the way his loyalties changed depending on his mood. He bargained and bred with political vantage, and Jennifer often wondered if in all the gossip over who rightly deserved the Iron Throne, if he didn't hope to perhaps steal it all for himself.

She tried to imagine him sitting on that throne, legs crossed and Silk harlots feeding him grapes. It was all too amusing. She imagined political discourse and deals would be his purview, but she couldn't imagine his cruelty being effective en masse. Lord Baelish was best when he could manipulate from within and let it fester on a larger scale.

 _Although_ , men and women gawked at King Joffrey as if he were made of gold. Perhaps Lord Baelish would have a fighting chance up there.

Historians would likely be reviled and removed, though. He spent too much time in the stacks to trust them. They used their words as weapons, too. He’d read their corrections before—post-mortems of actual history overwriting what was mandated by kings while they were alive. Very few were revered in hindsight. Lord Baelish would much rather write his own history, she imagined.  

 

 

The scent of freshly trimmed and nourished flowerbeds filled the gardens of the Red Keep. Lavender, rose and the occasional dandelion wafted through the air with each warm breeze. The sun hung low just behind the tops of the highest trees; the sky glowed purple, pink and orange.

Lord Tyrion Lannister sat on a bench awaiting Jennifer. His hands rested atop his knees, and he tapped his kneecaps with this fingertips in a timed rhythm while, Bronn puttered on about his latest escapades in his tour of the Street of Silk. It was tits and wine that brought the two men together initially, and ordinarily Tyrion enjoyed the stories if for nothing else the profane manner in which Bronn told them. However, he found himself distracted.

Tyrion scanned the gardens as far as he could see from his vantage point, and quietly groaned at the sight of his brother and sister. The pair walked through a cobbled path towards another wing of the Red Keep. Queen Regent Cersei stood front of the group with a handmaiden in tow. Lord Jaime followed behind a few steps in his usual statuesque yet whipped lumber. Proud. Tall. Both of them were that. And despite everything, both of them were the apple of their father’s eye.

Bronn gave a light punch to Tyrion’s shoulder and brought him back to his friend’s attention who was looking at him disapprovingly.

“You missed the best part of my story, ya’ git!” he reprimanded.

Tyrion locked eyes with his sister briefly. Her sneer followed as he looked away. He returned an apologetic smile to Bronn. “I am sorry, friend. Whose tits were we on now?”

“Nevermind,” the man replied gruffly. “You do have to check out the newest whores.”

“I’ll be sure to etch that into my robust schedule as Hand of the Petulant King.”

Bronn responded with a chuckle. “You’re alright sometimes…”

Jennifer exited the Red Keep facing the gardens and looked through and around each flower bed, robust hedge and decorative stone to try to spot the Hand of the King. Her palms were stained faintly of ink and she smelled of the dusty books and paper of a long day writing. She brushed the skirt of her purple, long-sleeved robe—a futile attempt at flattening out the creases and shooing away the dirt.

A ways from the scribe stood the Lannisters without Lord Tyrion. Relief. It was already unorthodox for someone of her status to share a meal with someone of the sitting family. She did not want to add the entire Lannister clan to the occasion.

The Queen Regent casually looked in the direction of the scribe. Jennifer bowed her head low and said, “Good evening, my Queen!”

Queen Regent Cersei gave, what Jennifer believed to be, a judgmental look then politely smiled. “Good evening, it is.”

Lord Jaime and the meek handmaiden returned nods of politeness that appreciatively read as “you’re easily forgettable” to the scribe.

From the bench, Lord Tyrion watched the royal exchange with caution. For the sake of the literacy and sanctity of history in King’s Landing, it was best if Cersei stayed away from the scribes. For the sake of Jennifer’s safety, it was probably better his sister not know she existed at all. Jaime wasn’t as much of a threat, even as a noted “king slayer”. The Lannister twins watched Jennifer walk away only briefly before turning their attention back to their path.

The scribe looked straight ahead, heart beating fast from the adrenaline of her first true encounter with the Queen Regent Cersei: the woman who bore a bloodthirsty child and King.

Lord Tyrion was seated on his bench and stood up once she was only ten feet or so from them.

Bronn grinned. “Don’t worry, miss, I’ll only be around in case I have to rough up someone for the Hand over here,” he said, shoving Tyrion a bit as he spoke.

Lord Tyrion took Jennifer’s hand and kissed the top of it, much as he had when they first met. He seemed to be one for constant attempts at flattery. The move helped. Jennifer felt more relaxed the moment she knew the rest of his family were out of sight.  

“Where do I owe you dinner?” Jennifer asked.

“Are you interested in venturing to a nearby tavern for a drink and meal?” Lord Tyrion asked.

“I know I could use a drink,” Bronn interrupted.

Tyrion eyed him and chuckled. “No one was asking you, fool—”

“—I’d also like a drink,” Jennifer confirmed.

“Excellent! It’s off this way, then.” Lord Tyrion gestured to a path veering out of the gardens and into town.

The path to the tavern didn’t require much walking, though Lord Tyrion and Jennifer slowed their pace significantly when they started talking. Bronn kept his distance and watched some of the women shopping in the marketplace as he passed by. He did his best not to gawk, but the corseted ensemble of some of the maidens drew his eye to places they probably wouldn’t have preferred.

“It’s not an illustrious story,” Jennifer stated plainly.

“I’d still like to know,” Lord Tyrion replied. His eyes always seemed so sincere, vastly different from the other Lannisters’. She worried he couldn’t be wholly trusted for that reason.

“I’m not a _lady_ because my family has never owned any land, or really anything,” she started. The pair were walking side-by-side through the street with only a few onlookers taking notice. Lord Tyrion hardly roamed the streets with the entourage his sister would, anyway. “We were not a wealthy family,” Jennifer continued. “My mother worked as a handmaiden for House Blackwood—”

“—Of the Riverlands?”

“That’s right. That was only for a spell while my father worked with a blacksmith as their fetching boy. Eventually they worked well enough to get me the proper schooling. But even after age 16, I was still learning. Now I’m here.”

“From rags to riches.”

“I suppose,” Jennifer replied with a shrug. “If you’re curious, it’s Miss Knott.”

“As in the North’s Knotts?”

“Estranged.”

“Ah. Well, shall I continue with just Miss Jennifer, then?”

“Or Jennifer. It doesn’t matter—my title and name hold very little bearing here at King’s Landing.”

“Fair enough.” Tyrion watched Jennifer as she walked a little ahead of him towards the tavern’s entrance. “Don’t you wish to learn more about me?”

“Of course,” she replied. “But first, wine.”

Tyrion smiled. “Now we’re talking.”

The wood of the tavern smelled dusty and looked just lazily polished by rag. The light was low in the tavern, but it held many men and women from King’s Landing looking for something hearty after a long day of work or a long day of no work. Beggars hung by the doors to ask for a few coin so they could get food and drink.

Once inside, the door to the tavern shut out all light from the outside; the white noise came in waves of excitement between rowdy laughs and drunken arguments.

While the rest of the tavern felt busy and dirty, the glasses and foodware were still relatively clean. Most importantly, the food and beverage were aplenty if patrons were able to pay for it. Jennifer ordered enough wine to ensure Lord Tyrion made a noticeable dent in one of their wooden casks. He chose the variety, she just facilitated the request.

Despite the stoginess of his kin, Lord Tyrion Lannister was laid back and drank more like a townsman than a noble. The moment his glass was full, he slouched in his seat with an elbow resting on the table. With Bronn lurking at a nearby edge of the bar, Tyrion and Jennifer were seated comfortably across from each other at a table in the corner.

“You know it will be quite the bill you flip if you’re looking to drink me under the table tonight,” Tyrion said, lifting his glass up an inch as if to nod his approval.

Jennifer smirked. “I save, I don’t spoil often.”

“Well, I thank my fine company for treating me to a good spoiling…” He took a sip. “You know you won’t be paying for tonight, right?”

Jennifer ran a finger across the top of her glass as she eyed him. “So you’re also stubborn?”

Tyrion laughed. “Not hardly, I’m just not a bastard.”

She took a sip of her wine while eyeing the Hand of the King from above her glass. He was smirking, but nearly all of the expression sat in his eyes.

The wine was fat: it was a white wine—not quite what Jennifer expected Tyrion to order—full of fruit and not a lot of bite to it. It was almost sweet. Another sip and Jennifer could tell it was rich with alcohol. _Ah, that’s why he chose it_ , she realized.

“Do you like it?” he asked as she placed her glass back on the table.

“I do. Not quite what I expected you to choose.”

“Figured it was better suited for this company than my usual.”

“And what is your usual?”

“I enjoy deep reds,” he said with a smirk.

Jennifer cleared her throat and smiled. “You know Lord Baelish thinks I should be wary of you.”

“Ah, does he? Interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?”

“The Petyr Baelish I know only welcomes that type of advice when he is in a selfish mood.”

“Selfish?”

“He gets possessive.”

“Over what?”

“Intelligent company, women, secrets, you name it.” Tyrion raised his brow in acknowledgment to Jennifer and took another sip of his wine.

“That’s an odd thing for you to say.”

Tyrion reached over to refill his glass and pursed his lips as he thought. “Is it?” He tsked. Jennifer grabbed the pitcher from his hand somewhat roughly and refilled her own glass. “Tell me,” Tyrion continued. “How often does one Lord Baelish find himself in the stacks?”

“Not any less often than the Hand of the King these days,” Jennifer replied lowly before taking a much larger gulp of wine.

Her lips were wet with irritation at the thought of Lord Baelish finding her anymore than conversational company. She wondered if Lord Tyrion merely meant to annoy her—his true Lannister blood warming to the surface of his skin. Perhaps both of these men were right, in some way.

Tyrion watched Jennifer with a careful eye and placed his glass on the table. He didn’t take another sip. He just watched her for a moment with what looked like concern.

“You know, I didn’t agree to this just to piss you off,” he said. He sat upright, both elbows on the table now as he peered across at her.

Jennifer felt his eyes boring into hers. She shifted in her seat and tried for a small smile. “You know I would love to eat something, as well. What shall I pretend I’m buying you tonight?”

Tyrion perked up. “There’s a surprisingly good mutton here,” he replied. “A little gamy, but we can always switch up the wine, if you’re interested.”

“A deep red?”

“Delightful.”

Despite her best efforts, Jennifer couldn’t hold herself to Tyrion’s wine consumption. It took twice as many to get him as drunk as she was. Even with bellies full of mutton and breads, she felt much lighter than he seemed to be.

Jennifer felt the warmth of inebriation in her cheeks, and she grinned when she realized just how much she had had to drink. It had been awhile since she had been so indulgent.

“What are you grinning at?” Tyrion asked with a smirk.

His lids hung half-closed over his eyes, and he stared at her as if he were fighting off sleep. The Hand’s posture had returned to its relaxed state, and he leaned against the wall next to their booth—feet propped on his benched seating. Jennifer wasn’t quite as comfortable, though she had slouched some in her spot.

“I can’t believe you actually drank as much as you did,” she said, quickly followed by a hiccup.

“Years of practice.”

“I’m sure there’s a story there,” she replied.

“There’s always a story,” he replied. “But I’m too drunk to read. Bronn!” Tyrion snapped his fingers for his companion.

Bronn walked over, hands clutching his belt and grimacing. “What?”

“Tell Jennifer a story,” he said in a lazy, commanding tone.

“I ain’t got no stories for her!” he scoffed. “She’s a writer! Have her tell ya’ one.”

Tyrion eyed his friend and chuckled. “Fair enough,” he replied with a wave of his hand. “Tell us a story.”

“I don’t just carry around stories, Tyrion,” Jennifer replied.

“Well _someone_ has to tell us a story!” Tyrion said. He was getting a little louder, and Jennifer feared he might draw attention to them.

“Alright, shut it!” she hissed, laughing through the noise.

A story? She wasn’t a writer of fiction, even if sometimes she felt as though she were. What could she honestly expect to tell Tyrion that would entertain him? He was incredibly well-read, and he likely already knew all of the stories she knew. Perhaps that was what would make him happiest, though—to retell one of his favorite stories. Of all the tomes, scripts and books she had borrowed from the stacks, surely by now she must know his favorite.

“Okay…”

Bronn chuckled as he watched Jennifer sit up to prepare to tell her story. “I’m just gonna get the bill, yeah?”

“Fuck off, then,” Tyrion mumbled, waving a hand. The elbow perched on the table was propped to hold his head up as he looked at Jennifer, anticipating something far more riveting than she could hope to tell.

“You’ve probably heard this one, but I know it is one of your favorites—”

“—and how do you know that?” He seemed amused.

“Because I’ve caught you reading it several times in the back,” Jennifer replied, clearing her throat. 

> _In the Valyrian Peninsula, amongst the Fourteen Fires, dragons hid from man. The volcanoes guarded their nests, living as they pleased in Essos with little disruption. Qarth legend claims a magical origin involving the moons, but the true origin of where these dragons came from and how they came to nest in Valyria is somewhat unknown. What_ is _known of them is the legacy they propelled for Valyrians after they were discovered._
> 
> _These dragon riders used the beasts to conquer land and sea, experiencing a world far-reaching from their own—_

“What were the beasts like?” Tyrion interrupted, eyes still half-shut, but his voice was enthusiastic. His head was propped by two hands now.

Jennifer smiled. “There were all different varieties,” she replied. “There was one particularly beautiful dragon...”

“Tell me about them.”

Her eyes glazed over some, the wine setting into her system. “Their scales gleamed in the sunlight flecks of gold with hues of reds and pinks. A rose gold of sorts. Their eyes were black—eyes so dark you’d think you could fall into them.”

“That’s a beautiful dragon,” Tyrion replied dreamily. Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the drowsiness from said wine, but the Hand looked quite comfortable in that moment.

“Very.”

> _A handsome royal family, House Targaryen ruled from Dragonstone with Valyrian pride, only nearly escaping the fate of the rest from their throne. The cataclysmic eruption of the Fourteen Fires destroyed everything around their fractured peaks—from the isles of Valyria, the people, to the dragons themselves._
> 
> _Old Valyria stood, once a City of Wonders, as ash and melted stone. It is said those sick with greyscale are sent there to spend out the rest of their days in agony._
> 
> _When the Targaryens took their remaining dragons to King’s Landing, they conquered with ease. They ruled the Seven Kingdoms for 300 years before they were overtaken by the Baratheons. Their legacy and their dragons shut out of Westeros’ history in one fell swoop._

“I’ve seen those dragons, you know,” Tyrion said, followed by a yawn.

“Where?” Jennifer was feeling tired, as well.

“They’re in the Keep. I can show you sometime if you’re interested. Might put some of that stubborn skepticism of yours to the test.”

She folded her arms and scoffed. “I’m hardly stubborn.”

“Don’t lie now,” Tyrion replied, teasingly.

The tavern was slowly clearing out, and Jennifer looked out a nearby window to observe night settling in.

“It’s time for me to leave,” she said. “But I would very much like to be shown those dragons sometime.”

Bronn walked over and stared at the two of them. “At least handle your liquor with pride, lads,” he mocked. “No use in gettin’ so tired just from a few casks.”

Tyrion looked up to his friend and laughed. “You forget I’ve seen how you hold your drink.”

“I’ll ‘ave you know I do it with integrity, lad.”

“Yes, I have heard alcohol can have the opposite effect on some people,” Jennifer retorted with a smirk.

Tyrion chuckled and threw his legs over the seat to exit the table. “We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

“Yes, I would like that.”

“Perhaps those skulls next?”

“Skulls?” Bronn asked, alarmed. “If yer talkin’ about those dragon skulls, count me out.”

“We can get on without you anyway,” Tyrion said with a smile. “No need to be so afraid.”

“You’ve seen them?” Jennifer asked Bronn.

“Hardly,” Tyrion interjected. “He doesn’t like dark places.”

Bronn spat near Tyrion’s shoes. The Hand of the King stopped and turned on his heel. “Next time at least hit the shoe so I can get a good shine out of it.”

Jennifer followed Tyrion out of the tavern chuckling. “Sorry to give you so much shit, Bronn,” she said. “It’s all in good fun.”

Tyrion’s ears perked at the sound of the swear fall from her lips. “Look, Bronn. You’ve gone and made our scribe here sympathetic towards you.”

“I don’t need your pity,” Bronn replied with a grin. “But thank ye. It’s more than I’ll get out of this royal arsehole.”

The pair walked Jennifer back to her quarters, stopping short of the door. “I hope the rest of your evening is well,” Tyrion said, more sobered from the walk over to the Red Keep.

“As do I, yours,” Jennifer replied with a bow of her head. She stumbled somewhat towards her door, but she wasn’t nearly as inebriated as she had felt. “Will I see you again tomorrow in the stacks?”

“Depends on how long the council decide to converse in the morning,” he replied. “But I’m hoping to end the afternoon on a positive note if I can.”

Jennifer smiled. “Goodnight, Tyrion.”


End file.
